


Beyond the Vow

by tunteeton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Explosions, Guns, Happy Ending, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Character Death, POV John Watson, POV Sherlock Holmes, Swearing, The Three Garridebs, almost kisses, but not really, even more anger at the present, post series 3, so much hope for future
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-26
Updated: 2015-06-26
Packaged: 2018-04-06 07:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4213620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tunteeton/pseuds/tunteeton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a sociopath was never this emotionally exhausting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Beyond the Vow

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to [imagesymboltext](http://imagesymboltext.tumblr.com/) for the thoughtful beta!

The phone rings, somehow managing to startle him even though he's been waiting for just that sound for hours. John jumps, glares at it as if it was a living thing. A very specific living thing. No. This time, he won't. He's had enough of being this pathetic, this available.

 _Rrrring_ It's not like he answered any of those times John has tried calling through the night.

 _Rrrring_. Fuck him.

 _Rrrring_. No. For once, he'll deny him.

 _Rrrring_. But what if...

 _Rrrrrring_. Indecision.

 _Rrrrrrrrring_. FUCK.

He picks it up. There's a stone mask over his face and another crawling into his words. Small talk is impossible.

“Are you in mortal danger, yes or no?”

Sherlock answers. The first word is enough for John. He hangs up.

Along the years, John has felt many things for Sherlock Holmes. Countless times he has been in awe of him, and just as often he's met the cold stab of disappointment. He's been concerned and elated, annoyed and exhilarated, angry and in searing love. The man is a fucking tornado of exhausting feelings, all thrown at John at breakneck speed, not once allowing time to recover. But maybe never before has John been more furious than right now and by gods, has he been furious with Sherlock.

Sherlock can't. He just fucking can't. He's a total and utter bastard, but this time he can't. What he planned to do is so over the line it's over the line even for _them_ , and that's counting the drugs and the killings and the fake suicide shitpot nightmare fuckup John has decided to reject in order to preserve the shreds of his excuse of a sanity. He's had enough, and this feels like a very important revelation to have right now, at four a.m. pacing the floors of Baker Street, after a day and a night of worrying after his terror of a best friend.

He's had enough of the sleepless nights, enough of the tears, of the heartache. He's found his limit, and that limit has turned out to be his former flatmate turned best friend, his hand offered for a stupid shake, cracking very bad rhetoric while planning to fly off to his death. John's not that stupid. He saw, and he knew. He fucking _read_ it between Sherlock's eyebrows and in the unhappy creases of his mouth. And he's had enough.

There's room for fifteen relaxed steps, eleven hurried ones and eight agitated paces on the living room floor. John knows, because he has counted. And he has counted, because Sherlock taught him to see, and to take notice. Everything he does somehow boils down to Sherlock, doesn't it? All the different permutations, all the different moods, he has worn on this floor. Seventeen steps up to the flat, eight agitated steps from the kitchen to the windows. A turn, then eight steps back to the kitchen. There should be a trail here on the floor by now, the notes of his highs and lows left for posterity to point at in horror. That would be only fair, more trustworthy than any words on his blog, any forced confessions from Sherlock's lying lips.

John paces. He knows what's coming, next. He can already smell the chlorine, the burnt gingerbread, the blood on the pavement, the vague almost-truths of Sherlock. Hear the mad tilt of the singsong voice. Taste the cold loneliness. Not this time. Not if he has any say over it, over anything.

Damn you, Sherlock Holmes. Damn you, for making John feel, and fear, and remember. Damn you. Bless you.

John waits.

–

It's a quarter to five when a cab finally curves to Baker Street. John steps away from the windows, blinks at the night-time darkness of the room. Downstairs, the door opens, then closes. Next, steps on the stairs. John counts every single one of them. Is unable to not count. Evidence of Sherlock's continued existence, no matter how banal, is valuable. His steps are slower than normal, but the cadence is right, the positioning of his large feet rings true. The bastard is tired. And no wonder that he is - after his return from the shortest trip to Eastern Europe imaginable, Mycroft basically wrestled Sherlock into the black government car and pedaled off into some secret location John needn’t know about. That was midday, seventeen hours ago. John doubts Mycroft is big on pauses, or lunches, or basically nothing that isn’t cold efficiency.

The door is opened and then Sherlock stands there, his expression surprised for once. He didn't expect to find John here, then. No matter. No time to think about that now.

“Sit.”

True to form, Sherlock does nothing of the sort.

“Why aren't you at home, with Mary?”

“Sit. Down.”

Sherlock goes to his chair and does sit, shrugging as he complies. John paces. Eleven steps between the kitchen and the windows. Five steps to the chairs. Stop. Turn. Draw in breath. Repeat.

The walls are vaguely green. John glares at them.

Sherlock opens his mouth.

“Shut up.”

Sherlock swallows down whatever words were threatening to materialise. Very clever of him, that.

“Are you my friend?”

A hurt expression makes an appearance, too fast to be completely fabricated. “John.”

“Answer honestly, Sherlock. For once in your life, just give me a straight response. Are you. My friend?”

_Friend. Colleague. He doesn't have friends. He's my friend. My best friend. The two people I care about and love most in the world._

No time for any of that emotional bullshit now. There's business to be concluded. Pace. Turn. Kitchen. Ugly green wall. Turn. Chairs. He hasn't even taken the coat off.

Sherlock gathers himself, sits with his back straight, hands over knees. He looks like a schoolboy in the headmaster's office, small and solemn. John tires of waiting, tires of pacing. Sherlock can't honestly be this cheap.

“Answer me, or so help me, I will take myself down those stairs and never come back.”

“Yes,” Sherlock bites out then, grimacing at the words. John can empathise, but that isn't the point of this exercise. “Yes, I'm your friend.”

“My best friend?” It's not a question really, more of a demand, an invitation to a fight. A glove thrown down, a slap across those hyped cheekbones. Sherlock turns his head down, worries the lapels of his suit jacket.

“That too,” he allows, shame written all over his face. Such sentiment, how it must grate him. It's one thing throwing these grand gestures around in front of dozens of wedding guests, but quite another repeating them when they're alone, just the old walls bearing solemn witness to his disgrace.

“And do you love me?”

An offended sniff, the last attempt to escape from this interrogation. He raises his chin, grey eyes still avoiding John's blue ones, looking for a way out. A softening of gaze. John doesn't blink, knows this bluff when he sees it. Sherlock tries anyway. “We've gone over that already.”

Does he really believe John's that stupid?

“Yes, in a room full of witnesses, when you were giving a speech, in front of the said witnesses and my newly-wed career assassin wife. But can you say that to me, now, here, when it's just you and me? Do you love me, Sherlock Holmes?”

Sherlock draws in breath, stares up at him until he can't any more. He drops his gaze, looks at his own large hands rather than at John, his lips pursed shut and trembling slightly. He looks too forlorn for it to be anything other than an act.

“Right. That's it,” John tells him and turns to leave. He hasn't taken more than two steps (of the seven) towards the door when Sherlock stops him.

“Wait!”

He does. He doesn't turn around, however. Sherlock has to work a bit harder for that. He almost wishes he had a cane to lean on, but he's not that cruel. Sherlock will break without it. He will. He has to. One of them has to, and John is not volunteering.

He can hear the squirming of expensive clothes against the leather of the chair in the silence, until -

“Yes I do,” the baritone voice finally allows, defeated. “I love you, John. I'm sorry, but I do.”

Such a happy sentiment they share. John's temper boils instantly. He doesn't quite plan the question to come out a yell, but it seems he can't help it.

“Then what in bloody hell were you thinking about?”

He turns around, storms up to his – whatever – and parks himself right in front of the chair, arms crossed. Sherlock looks up at him, his own expression tight now, angry and hurting. In the earlier days, the raw power of his indignation would have clouded John's mind. Not so any more. The constant, and occasionally fulfilled, threat of death works wonders on small insecurities.

“What do you mean,” he starts, but John cuts him short.

“How could you stand there, making stupid jokes, when you knew what was going on? How could you just leave like that? And you say you love me! How could you, Sherlock?”

“I didn't know about Moriarty,” Sherlock tries.

“I didn't mean bloody Moriarty!” John shouts. “You were going to disappear on me once again, weren't you? You were never going to come back! You see, I'm actually thankful about Jim fucking Moriarty just now, you selfish dick. Thankful about _him_!” He leans over Sherlock, panting, ready to punch if he as much as tries to wiggle himself away from the situation. They are going to talk, god help them, even if it's the last thing they'll ever do.

“Don't say that,” Sherlock pleads, almost, his voice tight, eyes shrouded. “Moriarty is -”

“If you try to change the subject one more time, I'll break your nose,” John spits out. “How could you, Sherlock?”

“Then what was I supposed to do?” Sherlock finally yells back, their foreheads almost touching now. “Magnussen was right! There was nothing I could do about that. Mary was in danger, which meant you were in danger, which meant I had to do something. So I did.”

If the git thinks this grants him some sort of absolution, he couldn't be more mistaken. John, barely, suppresses the urge to shake him until his damn floppy hair falls off.

“But a headshot, really? In front of all those witnesses? That was the best you could come up with? You, the genius?”

“High-functioning sociopath,” Sherlock reminds him angrily.

“Drop the damn act,” John spits right back at him. “That's what you say when you're losing an argument. Do you think I haven't been listening? You love me, your so-called sociopathy isn't anything more than a marketing act. But I don't care about bloody Magnussen and his bloody imaginary threat networks. You were going to leave, Sherlock. And only some months earlier, you made a vow.”

Sherlock blinks.

“Have you already forgotten your vow?”

A diminutive shake of a curly head. No, he hasn't forgotten.

“Tell me,” John demands, forehead pushing against Sherlock's now. The damn man might have a quicker brain, but he has got the thicker skull. “Tell me what you promised.”

“I will always be there,” Sherlock quotes quietly, his eyes fixed on John's lips. It's a bit of a must at their positions, but makes John pay special attention to his own pronunciation anyway.

“And what happened to that, you ox?”

Sherlock shrugs. Tries to shrug it off. Fails badly. “My always was used up. I died.”

All of a sudden, John feels very old. Then the anger comes back, as fresh and furious as it was just mere seconds ago. He has seen too much, been through too much to buy Sherlock's bullshit any more. He was there when the idiot’s heart stopped beating. He’s washed Sherlock’s blood off from under his fingernails, more than once. He’s _earned_ the right to his honesty, for fuck’s sake. And this is what Sherlock comes up with?

“If you even think about letting people hurt you again, I’ll kill you myself,” he blurts aloud. It comes out sounding like a declaration of war. Sherlock freezes, rises up slowly to face him. John knows the air is thick with his breathing, aggression and desperation, and he hates the fact that Sherlock remains cold and stoic while he himself is going to pieces once again.

“That would be counterproductive of you,” Sherlock remarks carefully, which is why John completely blows his fuse. Damn righteous idiotic _fool_.

“Don’t you dare to think you’re forgiven yet,” he snaps. “I haven’t magically forgotten that ruse you tried at the airport, or any of the earlier ones. Not even. But I’m not a damsel to be protected, I’m not some wilting flower for you to save. So stop deflecting and start explaining. Begin with this. What the hell have you been doing today, Sherlock? Where the fuck did you disappear to?”

He can see the walls rising in Sherlock’s eyes, the cold mask being slotted into place. It feels like being submerged in ice.

“You understand so very little, John.”

No. He can’t have this. They can’t go back to this. Without thinking, John grips his friend’s thin shoulders, tries to hammer some sense into him. His heart keeps on raving inside his chest, still running on the day's adrenaline. Sherlock can’t go away. He can’t leave John behind. It must not happen. Somehow, John must make Sherlock promise he won’t do that. That’s urgent. That’s more urgent than Moriarty possibly-maybe being less dead than everybody assumed. That’s even more urgent than John’s own wife being who-knows-what, an assassin and a murderer, ready and willing to set her sights on absolutely anybody.

The words, when they happen, are not what he expected. For starters, they are much more honest than he’s used to uttering in this particular madman’s presence. Much more honest and more revealing than they should be, than he should be.

“No Sherlock. I think it's you who doesn't understand. I've survived once without you already. And I had a taste of it for the second time, when she – but no. But if that made me realise one thing, if anything good came out of that whole nightmare, it is that I know now I couldn't do it again. If you die, Sherlock, I go with you. That's a fact. There's no other option for me. The next time you're dead, I'll join you. Just watch me.”

And Sherlock, wonder of wonders, does watch him. John, captivated, sees how the defiance in those ice-blue eyes turns from evasion to surprise to shock. Then he’s shaking his head, fast enough to send his stupid curls into complete disarray. Idiot Sherlock. Doesn’t he understand anything about John?

“No,” he says, and somehow it sounds like a command and a plea at the same time.

“Just don’t you disappear on me,” John demands. “And don’t go around committing suicides, or being murdered. Don’t. I can't take it. My bucket is full to the brim of your shit.”

“I had to,” Sherlock starts, voice loud and reasonable, but John can’t listen to his excuses right now.

“Like _fuck_ you had to!” He yells, and then, for a moment, everything is silent, just their laboured breathing filling the empty stillness of the flat. Sherlock opens his mouth a couple of times, but after a short consideration he closes it without uttering a sound.

John can’t take it for very long.

“Just,” he says and is shocked to hear how close to tears his own voice is, how it breaks in the middle of the syllable. “Please.”

“I,” Sherlock starts, and it takes John a moment to understand he doesn’t know how to continue.

“Promise me, you bastard,” he begs, pressing his unexpected advantage, and sees how something small and frightened in Sherlock breaks down just a little.

“I,” Sherlock tries again, looking for another angle, another way out of the situation.

“Please,” John talks right over him, and then it slips out, just like that. Unvarnished and so terribly honest. “Please. I love you, too.”

“You,” Sherlock answers, a whole new pronoun for him. There's a breathy hitch in his voice. And it’s like they’re back in time, in the kitchen here, Sherlock is roasting some poor sod’s eyeball, and John has just fumbled through the most awkward best man request ever. That time, the words he used had been practised. Now, not so much.

Well. At least he now knows that the weird shut-down reaction had been genuine. Poor Sherlock. Had he really not known?

No. He can’t go down that path now. The bastard still hasn’t promised. The time of sympathy has not yet arrived.

“I don’t know what my wife tried to accomplish by shooting my closest friend in the chest,” John continues. “And frankly, I don’t want to know. I’m sure she thought she had a good reason for that. But what I do know is what she actually managed. Earlier, there was room for two people in my heart. Not so any more. So Sherlock, swear to me. Swear by anything you hold true. Swear that you’re not going to go alone this time. The next time I fall asleep, and wake up, swear that you’re still going to be here. No disappearing into the night. No secrets. No lies.”

“John,” Sherlock says, and sounds like a puppy that has just been kicked, hurt and confused.

“Do it, Sherlock. Because if you go, you should remember. I’m a doctor _and_ a soldier. It wouldn’t be difficult at all, for me.”

Okay. That might have been a bit not good. No. That definitely wasn’t good at all. John deflates, feels how the adrenaline of the fight drains away from him. He shouldn’t expect Sherlock to understand this. Sherlock doesn’t do things like this. John’s being terrible, and unfair, and putting horrible expectations on him.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, turns away in shame. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But you _meant_ that,” Sherlock answers at last, his voice fierce. “I, I didn’t know. Before. And then I thought, with Mary -”

“Don’t bring her into this.”

Sherlock retreats immediately. “I didn’t know. It’s me who should be. I. John.”

John holds his breath. He knows he’s holding his breath. He can’t seem to stop doing that, which is absurd. The first rule of being a surgeon, the first rule of being a sharpshooter, had always been the same. _Just keep breathing. Oxygen deprivation won’t do you any good. Breathe, and concentrate, and save/take a life._

In all honesty, he doesn’t know if he’s saving or taking right now. Maybe a bit of both. He’s distantly concerned that he doesn’t seem to be able to differentiate between the two. To care enough to even try.

Maybe, with Sherlock, the lines have always been too blurred for that. A single act might result in both.

“John,” Sherlock is saying, urgent now. “John. What you’re asking, I can’t promise you that. Nobody could promise you that.”

John takes a step away, lets his head drop. He wonders if he should start breathing again.

It probably wouldn’t be worth the effort. So he has bolloxed this one up, too. His only real friend, his only meaningful relationship, the only person left he can bring himself to trust, and he’s pushed him away. Go you, John Watson. When will you learn?

“But I can promise you this. My vow, it can’t work any more, not the way I put it before. Not while things stand as they do.”

John is happy he has already turned his back to Sherlock. He couldn’t bear to look at him, not now when Sherlock is about to let him down. Idiot, idiot John. Always wanting too much. Always demanding too much.

A set of hands squeezes his shoulders. It’s an unexpected touch, almost electric, and the warmth of it makes him twitch and shudder. Sherlock steps close, almost presses his chest into John’s back. That back is ramrod straight in a military perfection. He can feel it when Sherlock inhales. He can feel it.

“I can promise I’ll always be there for you. Just for you, John. I can promise that I’ll never leave you out of my own will. If someone threatens me with your life, then I’ll have to break that promise. But out of my own volition I’ll never leave you.”

He listens to that familiar voice, saying these words, these inexplicable words. He blinks at the greenish wall. This is. Not what he thought. The hold on his shoulders becomes tighter. Another inhalation.

“And John?”

He’s turned around. Sherlock peeks at his eyes, concerned. He’s so close. Closer than he’s ever been, surely, and he’s always been touchy with John. Oh God.

“You should have told me earlier.”

There’s no way he’s misinterpreting this.

He’s going to kiss John. Sherlock is going to kiss him, right now, right here in their living room, at 5.30 in the morning. Moriarty is back, and John’s life has turned to be one huge lie, and Sherlock Holmes is staring at his lips with that singularly intense look he spares for the most brilliant cases only. It’s too much for any mortal to take.

He closes his eyes in surrender, or anticipation. He can’t tell which. He doesn’t really care, as long as this incredible thing is going to happen in the next few seconds.

John's phone rings somewhere far in the background.

“Fuck,” Sherlock says, softly, and his lips are so close to John’s that he can feel the warm whisper of that word, almost a question. John inhales that same air, the tainted oxygen from Sherlock’s lungs, and it’s ragged, it’s painful. The blasted phone keeps ringing a dainty tune, and neither of them are going to move, neither of them want to stop or think or do anything but stay here just like this, face to face but not touching, now that Sherlock has halted and the momentum in gone. You can't have a first kiss with a phone ringing, even oblivious consulting detectives seem to know that. So they stand together, breathing each other’s air, waiting with increased agitation. Which is about the point when the windows all blow up into the room.

In one moment, John is leaning into Sherlock, and by the next second they're flying through the room, he and Sherlock and the leather chair, too. They collide first with John's chair and then tumble down onto the floor, a heap of limbs, furniture and the scorching heatwave. For a moment, the heat eats up all the oxygen around them, and the explosion drowns all other sounds under it. After a few stunned seconds John opens his eyes to find Sherlock crouching over him, shielding him from the debris and calling his name frantically.

“I'm fine, get off me,” he grunts, but then the old wound in his shoulder screams its protest and for one terrible moment he can’t breathe for reasons entirely unrelated to Sherlock’s proximity.

“You're not,” Sherlock shouts, because of course he sees it, a blind idiot would see John curling into himself right now. Sherlock isn’t blind, and he most certainly isn’t an idiot, and currently he looks about ready to twist himself in half if that only somehow helped his friend.

John has no idea what to do with any of this - the almost kiss, the explosion, the pain, the pure panic in Sherlock’s face. So, true to form, he ignores it all.

“Fine enough, get off me,” he repeats and pushes at him, ignoring the bright pain this movement causes. Time will dull it, he knows. Believes. Hopes, at least.

And since it’s becoming obvious that either Sherlock lets him up or John hurts himself trying, the smaller evil is chosen and up they go. Sherlock, however, won’t stop hovering around him in the most distracting manner. How is John supposed to stop thinking about the pain if he’s like this?

“I’m not about to drop, leave it,” John tells him, feeling about four seconds from dropping. Silently, Sherlock points at a kitchen chair, miraculously left standing. After a moment of furious glaring John resigns to his fate and makes his way to it, carefully sitting down. It is dulling. It is. From his perch he studies the devastation of the rooms, the broken glass and the books laying everywhere, the burning embers of what's left of the windows. He tastes the chlorine once again, hears the manic instructions whispered to his ear. He shivers, and sees Sherlock do the same. They turn to look at each other.

“Moriarty,” they say in unison, lines united once more.

In the distance, sirens start to scream.

Despite himself, John grins.

–

It takes Sherlock less than ten minutes to pack his earthly possessions. John spends the time ignoring his threats to stay put, finding his broken phone under some debris and then wobbling downstairs to use Mrs Hudson's landline, stopping only once to lean on the wall and gritting his teeth through deep, pained breaths. He calls her and begs her to postpone her defiant return from the seaside where Mycroft whisked her earlier today. She's a mess of 'agains' and 'in my time of lifes' and 'you two take care of each others'. John makes all the correct sounds and tells her that everything will be right as rain in no time whatsoever while the remnants of her home collapse down around him.

“We'll all be back here before you even notice it,” he says, listens to one final outburst of distress and makes his way back upstairs to see how Sherlock's managing the packing.

Turns out he is doing surprisingly fine. He has unearthed two large bags and is in the process of stuffing his necessities into them. Economy of movement hadn't been the detective's forté earlier, Before, but now... It's almost like Sherlock's had ample exercise in packing his life into a little sack and scurrying off into the night. There are no dramatics involved, just resigned motions as toiletries, the laptop and chargers disappear into the bag. A pre-packed stack of clothes follows them, and John raises his eyebrow. Pre-packed? Has Sherlock been waiting for this, for the second explosion to rock his life off its roots, for the continuation of his voluntary exile?

“Take a look at the phone,” Sherlock tells him without turning from his bags. The little device sits on the table, screen unnaturally bright for this early hour. John picks it clumsily up, using his right hand.

It’s a photo of their door, timestamped 5.27. Apart from the door, there’s only one interesting thing in it. John stares at it in a weird sort of resigned horror.

“Did you call Lestrade?”

“Him and my brother both. Did you see the time?”

“Must have been taken just before the explosion. Sherlock, that’s a M40. There’s a fucking sniper out there.”

“An excellent deduction, John,” Sherlock replies drily. It’s hard to believe that this is the same man who said all those tender things to him a moment ago, who was so shaken by him being hurt. John shakes his head. Concentrate, Watson. There are bombs and snipers and madmen around here. First you survive, then you emote. Sherlock’s doing fine.

“Then why the hell are you still packing? We can’t go out!”

“This is Moriarty, or someone close to him. He’s playing his old game with me again and you know he likes to rig the odds to his favour. The other shoe is still to drop. The medicine kit is in the bathroom. Go get it. And get some painkillers while you’re at it, there’s no use playing a hero now.”

John spends a second ogling, but Sherlock appears to be serious. Fine. This is what he wanted, wasn’t it? To be included? This is where he’d rather be, at the crosshairs with Sherlock. Let him be useful then. His heels snap together and he turns towards the bathroom, making sure to steer well away from the bedroom window. 

“And John?”

Sherlock peeks into the bathroom and there are shards of glass stuck into his hair, glimmering in the faint light like ice and crystals.

“Yeah?”

His smile is absolutely incandescent.

“Hold that thought. We’re going to revisit it. Shortly, if I have any say over it.”

Oh.

–

They're stepping back into the remains of the living room when the door is thrown open. John's hand starts automatically towards his belt, his hand reaching out to stop Sherlock, but nobody runs in with guns blazing. Instead, Mary's blonde head peeks in, at once frantic and relieved at seeing them.

“You don't answer your phone!”

“Broken,” John tells her, pointing at the mess that once was a table and letting his hand drop from Sherlock's chest. It's only then that he realises he was protecting the scar there, and his temper rises immediately. Mary is not welcome in Baker Street any more. “What are you doing here? How did you even get in? You should be in the hospital!”

She comes inside, taking in the destruction of the room and wisely staying well clear of the shattered windows. She doesn't look very surprised by the wreckage, but there is some sadness in her voice. “No time for that now. Come on, we've got to get moving.”

John can't believe his ears. “No time? You're about to give birth! If that doesn't count as a deadline I don't know does. How are you not full of bullets anyway?”

Mary takes a step back, her eyes widening in alarm. “Why should I be full of bullets?”

“There a sniper out in the street,” John answers angrily. “Waiting for us to come out. And yet he let you in, just like that. Want to explain why?”

She pales. “I didn’t know about any sniper, I swear I didn’t. It’s not why I came. But John, you have to go out. You just have to.”

Behind John, Sherlock lets out a smug hum. Bastard. This isn’t a moment to get gleeful over being right. John gives her a distrustful glare.

“Why?”

Mary ignores him and speaks to Sherlock instead.

“When was the last time you went down to 221C?”

“Sometime in the spring. I didn't move around a lot during the late summer or the fall.”

 _He didn't move around a lot. Because you had shot him. In the heart._ John keeps his mouth shut, his fury hidden. They've had this fight. He knows how it ends.

He doesn't _understand_ why it ends like it does, with them teaming up against him. But with 221 Baker Street breaking down around them and Moriarty’s ghost apparently risen from the grave, he really doesn't want to revisit that conversation. Neither seems she.

“Yes yes tragic,” Mary snorts, and John has to restrict himself not to hurt her. She's his wife, for god's sake. He can't go around fantasising about beating her into bloody pulp. But if she ever raises her hand against Sherlock again, all bets are off. John's been forced to forgive once. There's not much more of that left in his bones.

“Maybe you should take a better care of your backyard,” Mary is telling Sherlock, flashing her own phone quickly. “There's a bomb big enough to level the whole building down there.”

John swears and starts towards the stairs. Shit. Shit.

He suspects this is the famous other shoe. Stay inside and be incinerated. Step outside and be shot to death.

Such darling choices they have been given. Moriarty must be really proud of this one.

It takes him a moment to realise no one else is moving. Sherlock’s voice stops him on his tracks.

“How do you know?”

Mary gives an annoyed sigh and starts towards the stairs after John. “Do we have to do this now, literally standing over it?” 

“You’re serious about the bomb. You keep checking your phone, either for messages or the time. Quite likely for both, which would mean this took you by surprise. That’s also supported by the fact that I’ve seen the feed of you being admitted to the maternity hospital yesterday. You wouldn’t have gone there had you known this was coming so soon. You got a message, then, delivered from a trusted source? Now, you tried to call John as soon as you learned about this plan, but only came here once he didn't answer his phone. Am I right? Don’t bother answering, I know that I am. Now, Moriarty liked stories even better than he liked explosions and snipers. There's a fairytale unfinished here. First the warning,” and Sherlock stops his outburst long enough to gesture at the destruction all around them. “He's done this before, it would be a suitable calling card if you ask me. A blast from the past. And after the greeting comes the game, his final problem. Last time, I didn't play by his rules. Neither did he himself, by the way. So yes, we've moved to the fast track. Someone is after instant gratification. Where the hell is Mycroft?”

Mary ignores him and tugs John towards the stairs.

“There’s a back door, isn’t there? Maybe they’ve left that unguarded.”

John doesn’t buy it for a second. “Who are they?”

She gives him that cold fish look he's only seen once, during that night they won't discuss any more. After a moment John gives up. It doesn't really matter, does it? Whoever they are, they're bad news.

“We need to warn Molly,” he realises.

“Already done and texted,” Sherlock answers. “Before I started packing.”

Mary's phone comes alive with an unholy shriek. She looks at the screen and pales even more.

“They've done it,” she says. “The countdown has started. We have to leave! Now, John! If you won't trust me about anything else, please do about this.”

–

The back door is blocked. John throws himself against it repeatedly until Sherlock takes hold of his arm.

“Your shoulder.”

“Is the least of our problems,” John grunts at him, fisting his hands. “What about the bomb?”

“Every bit as impressive as she told us.”

“Off switch?”

“Um. No. Sorry to say.”

Sherlock stares at Mary, and Mary stares at John, and John paces across Mrs Hudson's kitchen floors, studying her beautiful china. This is about the last place on Earth where he would have guessed he’d die. There are leftovers of yesterday’s breakfast still on the table, next to a bush of daisies of all things. And the sirens can be heard everywhere now, officers clearing people away from the suspected blast radius. Somewhere, a sniper is waiting, his sight fixed on the door to 221.

“Mycroft and his minions won't make it in time. There’s something happening in Belfast, he was on his way there. The door is a better chance. Let's go.” Sherlock stands on the doorstep, a horrible fatigue in his voice, the omnipresent phone glued over his ear, and they do.

–

In the end, it is Mary who saves John's life. She's following him outside, because he insisted on going first, of course he did, and Sherlock was too busy swearing at Mycroft to intervene. _Logically_ , he tells himself furiously, _it should be her who goes first. Then me. Then John. The sniper, if it’s indeed Moriarty’s, is probably focused on him. We could try to shield him. Too late now._

So Mary steps down to the pavement where she nearly loses her balance – her time is drawing near, Sherlock can see it in the sweaty paleness of her cheeks – and latches herself to John's arm to keep upright. But the surprise of her weight makes John stumble in turn, which is the exact moment when the first bullet is fired.

It hits her in the jaw. Sherlock has a prime spot to witness it, yet another headshot to haunt his nightmares, but that's not important. What is important is that her jaw is exactly where John's heart was a second ago, before she almost fell and took him with her. Sherlock stares, helpless with his phone, screaming at Mycroft to _fucking do something what is the bloody use of you?_.

John is shouting Mary's name, and he catches her and draws her to him, cradling her against his chest, and Sherlock tries to stop screaming to tell him “No, come here, can't you see that was meant for you, they're still out there, they still see you, leave her and come back inside, we'll try the bomb together it's going to be much better that way,” but he only gets as far as the first N when the sniper panics and then there is a bullet in John, too.

Something ugly and terrifying wakes up in Sherlock. He knows he’s capable of killing, but right now, with John standing still and the blood only starting to rise to the surface, he realises that there’s more to it, that if he ever catches the person who did this he’ll turn to something unforgivable, something thrillingly horrifying. And he will enjoy it.

The world is made of noise and blood and shards of glass flying down from the sky, floating down like sharp crystal rain, and that must be Mycroft's men, hastily called back from Belfast and breaking a hundred laws by being here with their death machines, and still John is holding to Mary and Sherlock is left petrified, staring or shouting or promptly losing his mind. It is all. Going wrong.

Sherlock can't hear a thing through the roar of helicopters in the air, but he sees John open his mouth and he does witness the little round “oh” that escapes, curiously without any breath behind it. And then, finally, too late, John lets his wife go and the dead weight of her falls down down down face down on the street, and John's hands are on his own body – largest target, the sniper was in a hurry, no time for finesse – and Sherlock sees the horrid wrong red colour between his useless fingers and.

_John, typing slowly enough to drive him insane, those fingers finding a letter after a letter after a letter but never learning their paths, the slow uneven tempo forcing itself through Sherlock's defences and straight into his brain. John sees a mistake. He deletes it all, one careful press at a time. He starts again. Sherlock can't breathe._

_John, holding the violin when he thinks he's alone (he’s never alone). Running those fingers over it, treasuring the work and love that has been poured into that small instrument over decades. Through the window glass, Sherlock can see the gentle smile lingering on his face. He doesn't touch the violin for a month. Dust accumulates. Sherlock blows it carefully away._

_John, pressing his hands against another's bleeding skin, barking at Sherlock to keep pressure on the wound. He's glorious, and Sherlock is on his knees and John doesn't even notice. He saves a life, shows Sherlock how to save a life. You save lives with pressure. Put pressure on the wound. Keep the blood inside, wait for help. Do it now._

“Pressure,” Sherlock hears John's commanding voice, but it's his own mouth making the sound, and when he twitches forward so does the whole street, the whole world perhaps, because now John is falling too. Sherlock can’t believe how _stupid_ he is, to slam on his bad shoulder like that, can’t he understand he’s making it worse? And now someone is shouting at him through the phone, telling him to run, something about a bomb. He doesn't understand.

John is still, he’s staring at Sherlock until he isn’t, which is much worse. And now Sherlock is on his knees, he’s back on the wet floor with Bainbridge and John is an unseen presence over his shoulder, and now they are his own fingers that are red with living running blood. “Give me your scarf.”

His mind is running away from him, something it does when he knows he’s not in control and the fears and the nightmares get a free reign. Because now Moriarty is there, sitting cross-legged next to them, shaking his head at John with a pout over his mad teeth. “Three gunmen, my darling,” he's saying, counting on his fingers. “Three bullets. Three victims. Who are they? Can you guess? Three down, right here on the street. You were so naughty, did you really think you'd get away with it? This is what little lying boys deserve.”

“No no no no no no,” argues Sherlock, half to John and half to Moriarty and all to the screaming void around them, and when the hands come (because if he's learned one certain thing in his life it's that the hands always come, they're always too soon or too late, and there's no use fighting them but that doesn’t mean he won’t try, won’t throw himself over John and go ballistic, because John must be shielded, he must be, and these people can’t be trusted to do a proper work of it), he's expecting Lestrade but gets Mycroft instead.

He would have much preferred Lestrade. At least he hits back.

 _This is what it feels like to have rabies,_ he realises with bared teeth, and then Mycroft does hit him back, and everything stops.

“If you're done being dramatic,” his brother is saying, and there's nothing Sherlock would like to do more than strangle him to goddamn death and then beyond it, but now he’s very tired, how didn’t he notice how tired he was before? And so he sits back between two very serious men with very serious-looking weapon arsenals and watches the black-clad people pour into his home and into the house across the street, and he watches as they take John and Mary and load them into into ambulances, and when Mycroft tells him, exactly 36 minutes and no explosions later, “There was nothing they could do about the baby,” he just nods and continues staring at his hands. Blood dries fast. His skin is already starting to feel tight.

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is safe,” Mycroft is telling him. “And so is Miss Hooper, and your precious housekeeper. Someone became careless. I have high hopes we're going to be able to round them all up this time. This attack doesn't meet James Moriarty's usual standards at all.”

Mycroft pauses and waits. Sherlock knows he’s supposed to say something. He stares at the opposite building and wishes for its immediate destruction.

“Which means he’s most likely dead and we’re dealing with an aspirant,” his brother prompts him. Sherlock nods dully. This is good news, he knows it. He looks at the splashes of blood on the pavement and all over his skin and thinks of John, years ago by St. Barts. He remembers what John sounded like, tearing through the paid crowd to get to him. He hadn't broken character for one millisecond and was quite proud of the fact. Now he just feels ill.

He's not exactly counting, but still he knows that it's four minutes later when Mycroft's suit-clad arm appears and forces a damp cloth into his fist. He studies it intently. It's blue, a colour the general population has been taught to associate with hygiene. He can't decide if this particular cloth is hygienic or not, but despite what he'd like to do he knows he can't live the rest of his life with John's blood all over his skin and under his fingernails. Mrs Hudson would give him hell. Very methodically, finger by finger and cuticle by cuticle, he sets to clean it away. Before long, the cloth has turned to splashy brown.

Once he's done Mycroft takes the cloth away and offers him another one, white this time. Sherlock holds it, but doesn't really know what to do with it. His hands are clean now, aren't they? What else could be expected of him?

His brother lets out the kind of exasperated sound he usually reserves for legwork, takes the wet cloth back and starts to clean his face. Sherlock blinks. Oh. He doesn't have much in the way of comparison, but Mycroft's touch feels very gentle. With great effort, Sherlock forces his eyes up to meet the gaze of his brother. This seems to surprise them both, and Mycroft's hand stills for a moment, hovering over Sherlock's cheekbones.

“You did well,” he says just before the silence becomes strained, and then quickly concentrates on the cleaning again.

Sherlock knows very well that he didn't, but decides to keep this information to himself.

Mycroft has lost weight, he notices.

–

He sits and stares and feels the kind of guilt that drums deep into his bones and makes a home there. It's wrong to look at John and think he looks peaceful. It's wrong when it was Sherlock whose carelessness put him in intensive care in the first place, when it was Sherlock who couldn't finish the one job that truly mattered. It hadn't even been Sherlock who counted in the end. All he has ever done for John is to cause misery and misfortune. Coming back was a huge mistake. His presence spells instant trouble for anybody he cares about, he should know that by now. And to think that he almost gave up, almost took what he wanted this very night, never once thinking to check out the basement. Sentiment has truly become the ruin of him.

“Without Mary, you'd be dead,” he tells John, because some things need to be admitted aloud, no matter how distasteful or shameful they are or if the audience is, indeed, unconscious.

John doesn't answer. He sleeps the heavy sleep of the sedated, and Sherlock, very well remembering what it felt like, doesn't even think about taking his hand. He still can't stop thinking about Barts, about John's rage ever since and his own helpless shock when their situations were finally reversed.

Well, maybe not so helpless. He had happened to glance in a mirror after Mycroft had finally allowed him into the hospital. He can’t remember being punched in the face, but the evidence is right there for anyone to see. It doesn’t hurt at all. He wonders if it ever will, if he’ll ever again feel anything concrete.

But guilt, oh guilt he has got nailed down.

He was the one who let John walk out of that door. Yes, the alternative wasn’t any better, but the truth is that when John most needed his brilliance all he could come up with was to beg _his brother_ to do something and then throw John outside, ripe pickings for the sniper. Garrideb, his name had been. Drey Garrideb, and he’d better be grateful Mycroft’s minions got to him before Sherlock did. 

Yes, he's been told that John is safe, that he's going to wake up any moment now, that the bullet didn't break anything irreplaceable. _Distastefully sloppy work,_ had been Mycroft’s verdict. He has taken this information, along with every reaction John has had to being deceived all those years ago, and he's observed them the best he can, and he's come to the conclusion that he's a total and utter shitpot. (John's words, not his, but he feels they are appropriate for the situation.)

He doesn't know what kind of penance he needs to endure to make things even. There quite possibly isn't anything that comes even close and doesn't break his promise, his latest last vow - and the irony of that doesn’t escape him either. Of course, it’s entirely possible that John never wants to see him again after this most recent failure. Being a sociopath was never this emotionally exhausting.

The door opens and a huge bush of flowers appears, followed closely by one Molly Hooper. She looks messy and tired, but she's entertaining a hopeful smile. Sherlock scowls, hoping she would for once take the hint. She doesn't. Instead, she tosses him a bag of crisps.

“Your scary brother sends his regards,” she tells him. “And to tell you that Lazarus is over, whatever that means.”

Sherlock stays silent. He supposes this should be a moment of celebration. He takes another look at John's pale face and greying hair and feels nothing but dull dread. Molly leaves the flowers on the bedside table and takes a seat on the other side of the bed. It doesn't take the observational skills of a consulting detective to see that she's squirming with a barely suppressed agenda.

“I,” says Molly and sounds about twelve. “I wanted to thank you. The two of you. For all you've done, for everybody. I know it's been hard, and still is,” and she glances at the sleeping man between them, “but I just wanted you to know that it's appreciated. When John wakes up, would you tell him that?”

Sherlock blinks and takes a first good look at her. What he sees makes him almost bite his tongue in half. Some old part of him is clawing its way back, refusing to admit defeat. _For all they’ve done._

“You're dating again! You're going out with an older man, grey hairs on your collar and shirt. He's a – a cuddler! Someone you don't feel the need to dabble in make-up for. Someone you've known for a long time.”

Molly blushes. “He's nice. I signed the flowers from both of us. He's just as grateful as I am. And definitely not a sociopath.”

“Finally,” whispers John Watson, the barest hint of smile in his raspy voice. “Sherlock, water. Now.”

Sherlock does bite his tongue then, and it ends up being Molly who holds John's head and offers him a cup while he sits helplessly next to them and tries to make sense of this new situation where John is awake and talking and apparently in the know of Molly’s boyfriend before Sherlock himself has managed to work it out.

“He's dead,” is what he says when he finally trusts himself enough to open his mouth. “Your sniper is dead. I mean I would've killed him anyway, but Mycroft got there first. Or not him, obviously, but one of his minions did. So you can forgive him.”

“The sniper?” John asks between sips, a drugged frown forming between his eyebrows.

“No, you idiot,” Sherlock answers and feels instantly better. “Mycroft. And Mary saved your life, so there's that.”

“The baby's dead,” John says and it's not a question. Sherlock nods, and soon enough John does the same. The frown deepens until it has invaded his whole face, leaving him grey and haggard. “That was. More sudden than I expected.”

Now it's Sherlock's turn to frown. “You expected that?”

John gives him the wobbly, stern gaze of the professionally medicated. “To walk with you is to see the battlefield. Your brother told me that once. I think.” He has to stop for a blink there, the drugs making him drowsy. “To walk with Mary was a minefield instead. You never knew where the danger came from. I’m - sorry, for her. Got the worst possible luck in parents. Poor thing.”

Sherlock is pretty sure this is one of those moments where the best course of action is to keep his mouth closed. John both sounds and looks deflated. Tired. Ages old.

“Um,” says Molly, getting up and throwing him a warning look. “I think I should go. Get better soon, John!”

“Sure,” John yawns. “Give my congratulations to Greg.”

The time of horrors isn't over. Sherlock lets out an incredulous laugh and Molly winks at him before closing the door after herself. “Greg?”

“Check the card, Sherlock,” John advises him in the most dopey manner possible, his lips barely moving. “And stop beating yourself over this thing. When I get better I'm gonna take you home.”

“Home?”

“Yes,” John says. “Home. And then we can finish what we started. I’m holding on to that thought.”

The floor disappears from under his feet. “You mean – what we started today?”

John's lids drop closed, a fact that clearly leaves him displeased. Sherlock has to lean over him to hear the whisper he still manages. “Ages ago. Just didn't realise. Do now.”

“John,” Sherlock says, and his voice sounds wrecked even to his own ears. “I -”

John lets out the gentlest snore in the world. Sherlock sits back down, waiting. Little by little, his heart calms down, the floor comes back, and his head rearranges itself on his shoulders. Lazarus is over, says Mycroft. He can wait. He can wait for John to take him home. And then they will have tea with Mrs Hudson, and when the evening comes John won't go to the upstairs bedroom. And it will all be fine. A bit terrifying, utterly new, but fine.

He takes his words back. He can’t wait after all.

“But Molly and Greg?” Sherlock asks aloud, glancing at the card on the table. It sits on its place innocently enough, smugger than any get well card should have any business of being. He touches it, and contrary to his expectations it doesn’t explode in his fingers. Carefully, he opens it and reads the short text inside. They have even drawn a picture, just for him. No, he corrects himself. Molly has.

John lets out one endearing puff of breath after another. Sherlock braces himself, studies the simple drawing of the two persons and one cat holding hands, glances at the bed. Could he? Does he dare after all?

John’s skin is dry and warm and his fingers curl at once around Sherlock’s. This minor miracle keeps him captivated for many long minutes. He doesn’t even notice how, in his sleep, John Watson smiles. Outside the hospital window, the east wind eases the first snowflakes gently to the ground.


End file.
